Page 108 of Secret Obsession
Willow pauses. “Um, actually, I’d like to lock up. Give my landlord some peace of mind.”
“Naturally.”
I grit my teeth until I hear the start of the engine that indicates Willow’s in her car. A second later, she’s calling me. I exit the spyware app and answer her call.
“Hey.” My voice comes out strained—but fuck it, I guess we can blame it on my workout. Even though I’ve barely done much to work up a sweat besides my run and the stretching, the lunges… nothing major.
“I’m leaving my apartment,” Willow says. Her voice is alotmore shaken than it was when she spoke to the detective. “Some other girl’s apartment got broken into, and it’s bad. She’s going to be in the hospital for a while. They had to take off part of her skull to relieve the brain swelling…”
“Holy shit.” I missed the extent of that, thanks to BJ. “Are you okay?”
“I’m just glad you were there,” she whispers. “I told her that there was some guy bothering me at the nightclub, but he’s… he’s gone, right?”
“He is,” I confirm. “You’re safe at my house, okay? Do you want to meet me at the arena—”
“I’ve got somewhere to be. But I’ll catch you later, okay?”
Curiosity burns bright in me, even after she hangs up. Maybe I wouldn’t if she wasn’t being secretive about it, but… fuck it, I want to know where she’s going and who she’s meeting.
I hop up from my spot and pull out my earbud. I stop in front of BJ. “Sorry, man, I’ve got to run. See you tomorrow at practice?”
“Yeah.” His eyebrows rise, but he quickly schools his expression into something more chill.
Which is good, because I would hate to rearrange his face for ratting me out to Coach.
He knows it, and I know it.
That’s enough.
I snap my fingers and turn back around. “Oh, and I need your car.”
32
WILLOW
“Don’t forget to practice,” I call after my last girl.
There were four today, each a half-hour, and I’mexhausted. It’s probably more of a combination of what I learned with Detective Barrister, being back in my wrecked apartment, and the reminder of the death that happened there more than dealing with sour brats who don’t really give a shit about singing.
Don’t get me wrong—some of them actually like it.
But others are only there because their parents are determined to find hobbies and hidden talents.
“Knock, knock,” one of the other voice coaches calls, tapping on my door. “Ready?”
Yeah, may as well.
I like singing. And I’m teaching kids the theory behind it, the proper techniques, the least I could do is help myself and do the same. So, for the last few weeks, Nora has been giving me lessons. Every Sunday and Tuesday after my last kid, without fail.
We go into her room, and I stop in front of the music stand. It’s still weird to have her sit behind the piano and facing me. Normally that’s me. Although I can’t play the piano to save my life—I know just enough to read the keys and the melodies, and that’s about it. For young kids, that’s fine. I get the beginners, anyway, and then they move up to Nora.
“Let’s pick up where we left off on Tuesday,” Nora says now.
She’s in her fifties, with only a few streaks of gray in her otherwise light-brown hair. I scan the music and nod to myself, and she gives me my starting note.
Singing and I have an interesting relationship. I’ve always liked to sing in the car, and along to the pop songs, but sometimes my parents got annoyed with it.She has a lovely voice, I overheard my mom tell one of her friends,but she doesn’t ever stop.
That was a silent hit to my ego.
